


Fate, the Life and the Living

by Word_spinner007



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 60 years of suffering, Found Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Rage, Recovery, no romance sorry only familial love, powerful woman, re-found family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:00:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26907760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Word_spinner007/pseuds/Word_spinner007
Summary: Betrayal, death, and fate. They are tricky and sickening things, mysterious and yet still hard in their deciding. Such thinks Lady Dís of Erebor, 60 years after the deaths of her loved ones, from which she has never recovered. Meanwhile, messengers from the Black Gate have come to force the Dwarves' hand in the oncoming war. Will the rightful queen be able to save her people from the wrath of Sauron? Or a better question, will she be willing to?
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

Prologue

Betrayal is an awful thing. 

The act itself is terrible; to love, and to trust, and then to have it ripped away from you like leaves from a tree too soon gone. But it's not enough to be terrible; it's sickening. It feels as if someone has taken part of you away unjustly, and you were powerless to stop it. It feels like death, and the two are in fact much the same.

Death was common among the dwarves of the third age of middle earth. They had fought many wars and lost many kin. It was not uncommon to see a dwarrow mourn for her husband, or her father, or her sons, or her brothers. One such mourned now, a lone dwarven lady in a plain stone room of the kingdom of Erebor. This however, was not any mere dwarrow- this was lady Dís, daughter of Thrain, son of Thror. She was the lady of Erebor, the eldest child and only daughter of the king. She was a proud and intelligent dwarrow, strikingly beautiful, with bold raven locks and earthen skin, eyes brighter and bluer and sharper than cut sapphires. She had a silver tongue, and many said that she could enchant any who heard her words. She served many years as the chief diplomat of her people, bringing them peace and lessening their burdens. 

But that was in the days of her youth. Now, her eyes sat in hollows. Her breath was torn. Her body was weakened and frail, a shadow of her once bold self. Her hair had greyed nearly overnight, and the dwarven kingdoms agreed (in private gossip, of course) that Lady Dís had died along with her kin, and was cursed to have her body remain on earth to mourn. Betrayal and death are awful, terrible things.They wound as deeply as swords. And similar to sword-cuts, some never heal. 

Section One: 

Of Betrayal

It was nothing short of betrayal, she thought for the millionth time, as she sat in her room for another day in another endless year. The fire burned softly in the grate at her side, it’s reflection in her empty eyes. They stared, and yet did not see: The world around her carried on and she did not. She was willfully blind to it. Too many things occupied her heart to bother with outside things- Too many things and yet nothing at all. Again the word betrayed twisted through her thoughts, and she pondered yet again whose it really was.

It seemed both hers and his. 

It was his because he had gone in the first place, to regain some forsaken place that should not have been touched. It was his betrayal, because he sought out the very thing that had driven their grandfather mad. It was his fault that all was dead and gone because he had left her to rot, taking with her all that remained of her heart. Yes, he had betrayed her in his death, and it stung harsh and bitter. 

But it was also hers. It was hers because she had let him go, and take her sons with him. That had been foolish. It was her betrayal because she had thought herself at last so safe in exile, having already lost so much, feeling untouchable by fate. Also foolish. It was her betrayal because she wasn’t there when they died. And more than anything, it was this sickening guilt that kept her alive. She had not been there. The following years passed by in a shadow, and still this thought resounded: She had not been there. 

But even if she had been, could she have swayed Thorin? Could she have saved him from illness and death? Could she have rescued her sons? Could she have kept peace? She did not know, and doubted she would ever. But a great part of her yearned, begged, even prayed to Mahal for another chance. To repeat the past. But Mahal did not answer. He wasn’t that sort of god. 

As to why she did not go in the first place, that was part of her betrayal as well. She and Thorin agreed that she would organize and prepare their people for the move and that she would safely await his return. They had also discussed, with her pushing the point, that Fili and Kili needed to learn a life without their mother. They needed to see their heritage. They needed to reclaim their own kingdom. How bitterly ironic, she thought, that it was her who so obviously could not live without them. 

Darkness gripped her. Her rage ran hotter than melted steel. And yet her heart was empty; The strength was sapped from her limbs. It was as if there was an endless pit in her chest to which there was no relief. But while her body wasted, her mind was ever turning, fixed on the deaths. So much death. It enveloped her like a smoke. For lady Dís, she thought to herself, there was nothing but death.


	2. Left Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin, son of Fundin, has always been close with Lady Dís. But after the death of Thorin and her sons, she was changed and alienated. Can one broken dwarf fix another?

Dwalin was still left; Left behind, rather. The younger brother of the great and wonderful Balin, and the closest companion of the departed Thorin. He was greatly respected, being one of Erebors saviors, but that did not warrant him any company. He was in close communications with the brothers Ri, and with Gloin’s family, and a little more distantly with the others of his company. He was on speaking terms with Dain, son of Nain, king of Erebor. But beyond that, there weren’t many people for Dwalin. 

Except, perhaps, Dís. The lady and himself were of about the same age and height, with her being around 10 years older and two inches shorter. She had often watched him spar with her brothers, Frerin and Thorin. It was no secret that he had fought for her attention. She had been the fairest of them all, and of royal blood. Many a dwarf spent long hours seeking her. But she was a stubborn thing and would have none of them. In truth Dwalin liked this more than her royal blood or beautiful hair; she was cunning and witty, with a heart as strong as the mountain. 

But it was not to be; she married Vili, a humble yet noble seeming dwarf. He didn't resent her for it, for Vili had a gentle heart and good spirit that somehow matched her fiery one. Dwalin resented him more for dying, and leaving Dís to raise her boys alone. Nevertheless, him and Dìs had remained close over the years and confided in one another. He was a brother to her, and at this point in his life, he was content with that station. 

After the death of her remaining family however, Lady Dís was changed. Some say she withered but Dwalin, seeing her first-hand, disagreed. She burned like dragonfire and wept like the very oceans were in her eyes. She had always been blunt, and subject to rages, but now she was bitter. Not the petty sort of bitter, like when you feel you've been wronged in some way, but the bitter that fills your whole body- a bitterness so intense it makes you cry and scream at the same time, and then cry more at the confusion of it. She rarely left her rooms. Her hair and beard were unkempt and unadorned. She had grown thin and painful to look at. It hurt Dwalin deeply to see her wallow in this state, year after year, and sometimes he himself was bitter and wished she would recover some of her former self. But he understood her grief; Thorin had been a brother to him, and he loved Fili and Kili as his own sons. Like Dís, his mourning never stopped. But as with all deaths, he learned to live again with the pain of absence. Lady Dís it appeared, had not. 

Despite her condition, Dwalin still paid her visits. Many used to come to comfort the Lady; Gloins family, various wives and widows, cousins. They faded away with time. She was not in a speaking mood, and it seemed she would never be again. But Dwalin still came, and sat, for while there was very little to say between them it still comforted him to be near her. He felt as if they were the last two, the only two who knew how it felt to lose so much and still live on. There was peace in this fact.

At least there was for him. For her, he knew not. It was impossible to read her face. It seemed carved out of the very stone they lived in. These things he pondered as he mounted the steps and opened the door to her chambers. He didn't knock. There was no point to it when he was the only one who came.

"Dís," he said with a nod. 

She bowed her head in return, not looking. He came and sat across from her in the chair he always sat in. Silence stretched out again, only briefly broken by his appearance. 

Much later, after stoking the fire and re-taking his seat, he said, 

"Bombur's fit to have another blasted babe. Wife thinks it's another lad. Everyone else is hoping it's a lass." He grunted. "I for one think the whole thing’s disturbing. He's already got nine, what does he need another for?" 

The corner of Dís' mouth twitched and for a brief second her eyes softened. For her, that was the equivalent of laughter. Straightening up, he decided that this was a better time than any to try his luck.

"Your room is full of smoke. Best open the door to let it air out some." 

Immediately she scowled. "Nonsense," she said, her voice rough. 

"No nonsense. I think your chimney's clogged from overuse." 

She tilted her head to direct her gaze at him. For a moment he was tempted to rescind his statement, but he pushed onward. "This happened a few years back. We had to clean it out. You remember that, don't you?" 

"I remember," she growled. 

"Good. I'll call for someone to come and do it." 

"You cannot do it yourself?" She asked. 

It was true that the last time this occurred, and the times before that, Dwalin had cleaned the chimney. There was not much else he could do for the Lady than to make sure the air she breathed was clean, and he knew full well that if it were up to her, she would sit there until she choked. 

"No I cannot," he answered. "I'm growing older, and my body's getting weary. Can't do near as much as it used to." 

"You are not that old," she grumbled. 

"I'm nearly two hundred and fifty," he said, standing from his chair. "And I've had many wounds. I'll get someone to come do it." He crossed his arms. 

Lady Dís growled. "Very well. Tell me when they shall come." 

Dwalin crossed to the door and opened it. "Today would be a nice day for it," he said loudly. Dís looked at him dourly. He leaned slightly out the door and said, pointedly, "Today would be a nice day to clean a chimney, wouldn't it?" 

At the bottom of the twisting stairs that led to the Lady's chambers, Bofur suddenly threw down his cards. "Well blast it, I've missed my cue!" He scrambled to his feet as Nori, his opponent, leaned over to peer at his fallen hand. 

"Why, you were bloody cheatin'," he said with a scowl. 

"Only cause you were," Bofur said with a wink. He grabbed up the brooms and brushes and quickly began to mount the stairs. 

Dís held Dwalin in a vice like stare. Dwalin returned it. He had never been afraid of her. Despite her frustration, she was in no state to argue with him and they both knew it. Eventually Bofur bounded up the last step, brooms rattling. 

"At your service, mi'Lady," he said with a deep bow, panting as he did so, for it was not a short staircase. Dís sighed, and breaking off her stare-down with Dwalin, waved Bofur in.

“This’ll take the better part of an hour Miss,” Bofur said cheerily, setting down brushes with a poof of soot. 

Dwalin gave a curt nod. "Best go outside for a bit," he said gruffly. 

Lady Dís pursed her thin lips and stood. "Very well Dwalin. Take me where you will, for I will not pretend that that was not your original purpose in all this." 

The old dwarf merely extended his arm to her and led her out into the hallway. They went skywards, up staircases and along corridors. They went slowly for Dís did not walk more often than was needed, but Dwalin didn’t mind. She was out, for one day in many years, and he was going to use this day as best he could. 

They came at last to a balcony, stepping out of the caverns still air and into the slight wind. Dwarves value the earth, and all that is therein, and have little need for gardens in the same way hobbits and elves and men do. Thusly there were no plants, only the turret to keep them from falling. There the two stood, against it, looking out over a courtyard. Many young dwarves and dwarrows filled it, eating, drinking, laughing, and at the center, two sparred with wooden weapons. 

Minutes passed by. Dwalin tilted his head towards the young fighters below. "You were far better, at their age."

Dís snorted. "Little good it did me." 

"It did you well in our sparring matches," he pointed out. 

"There was no purpose in our sparring. I did not fight." Her voice was dry and cold. 

Was there no purpose? Dwalin thought, and a pang of sadness hit him. "Perhaps not, lady. But I enjoyed it at the time." 

She didn't respond to that, instead looking down. “Why do they practice?” She said surprising him. 

Dwalin raised his greying brows. “For fun. To keep in shape.” he grunted. “You know how the young like to fantasize. Always wanting to be killin’ orcs, or running off to someplace new.” 

“Fantasy,” Dís sneered. “Let them not look for such dreams. It will only bring them misery.” 

Dwalin huffed. Just another overly dramatic and depressing comment from his favorite Lady. But under his air of casualty, a small voice cried, _“Is that you, Dís? That cannot be you. How long will you be gone from me?"_ He cleared his throat and shoved the voice down. It would do him no good to think that way. 

A small wind blew at them. Sounds came up from the courtyard below. Dwalin glanced at Dís from time to time, but her eyes were unfocused, looking but not seeing. After long minutes, his heart began to despair again, and he wondered if it was time to return to her chambers. 

He was about to say so and lead her back when Dís leaned forward slightly. Her eyes were narrowed. "Is that...Mìrid?" She said.

Dwalin squinted. His eyes, along with the rest of him, were aging. "Aye… it appears so." He looked puzzledly at the Lady, somewhat impressed that she had recognized Mìrid in the first place. Mìrid was a working class Dwarrow, and was the second person who visited the Lady regularly. Not because they were associated in any way, but because Dwalin was paying the lass to deliver her food and firewood. She doesn’t fight too badly, he thought to himself, glad to have something else to focus on. But eventually the hour passed, as all hours did, and he walked Dís back to her rooms, and bid her farewell. Dwalin climbed slowly down the stairs, in a strange stupor. At the bottom he was greeted by Bofur, whose face and hair were caked in soot. 

"How fares the lady?" He asked softly. Bofur had never been close to Dís, but he had loved her brother and her sons dearly, and someone who was kin to them was a friend of his. He had a heart big enough for that. 

Dwalin frowned. "I can't tell if she's for better or worse," he grumbled. "Mìrid was sparring today. Dís recognized her and didn't speak a word after." 

"She doesn't speak much as it is," Bofur pointed out. 

"No, she doesn't," Dwalin admitted. "But she seemed strange, I suppose. She watched the lass quite closely after she spotted her. It was as if-" He almost said, _as if she were back again_ , because her eyes were focused and he thought he had seen a gleam in them, as in the days before Erebor, but he knew it was not so. "I don't know what to make of it," he said instead. 

"Mìrid's the servin girl, ain't she?" 

"Aye." 

"Perhaps she was shocked merely to recognize her," Bofur suggested. 

"I don't know. Perhaps," Dwalin said, but he didn't believe it. "She also asked why they were sparring in the first place."

"What did you say?" 

Dwalin grimaced. "I said it was for sport. She appeared to believe me." 

Bofur nodded, looking thoughtful. "Probably for the best. Don't imagine she'd react too well to know another war was comin'." 

_She barely reacts at all_ , thought Dwalin, somewhat spitefully. Shortly after, they parted ways, and as Bofur went to bathe, he went down to the very courtyard he had been above moments before. A feeling was coming over him. One that he had been fighting off for years. But waiting had worn him down, and bled him dry. He sat at the back of the courtyard, and watched the young dwarves enjoy their lives, and remembered how his had once been. 


	3. The Young Who Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so Dain ruled the lonely mountain after it's retaking, and the once-powerful lady Dis sunk into shadow. But why? Time for some flashbacks folks. Hope you enjoy!

Mìrid was a simple dwarrow. She was a young woman of 73, born in the iron hills. Her father had died fighting for Erebor in the Battle of the Five Armies, and her mother, knowing the significance of the kingdom won, had sworn to bring them up in his memory. After the great city was rebuilt, they made the journey between mountains, and had lived there ever since: her, her mother Gursin, and her elder brother Vyrik. 

But despite the war being over, orcs still ravaged the lands between the mountains, and while traveling to see kin in the iron hills, Vyrik and his company had been ambushed and slain. To help with funds, and to ease the burden on her mother, Mìrid took jobs running errands for the elderly, sharpening swords, and doing chores. One such chore included going to the market, and using money from her employer, buying a week's worth of victuals and firewood and transporting it to the chambers of Lady Dìs herself. 

At first, Mìrid had been frightened to wait on the Lady. Some said she was a living corpse; some said she cried and never ceased, and some said she had turned to madness and wasn’t fit to be seen in society anymore. But quickly Mìrid realized none of these were true, at least not all the way. The lady was thin and poorly seeming, but she was no corpse. She often looked like the weight of the world was upon her, but Mìrid had never seen her weeping. She didn’t know very much about what people did when they had gone mad, but she did know that the Lady always thanked her when she delivered her things, and had never scolded or complained, and that was enough for her. 

She came once a week, on Tuesdays. She used to knock, but the lady had told her to stop, saying it was “No use knocking when I know you’re coming.” Mìrid also used to bow when she came in, but now merely nodded to the lady, who nodded back. She put the firewood in the iron shelf by the fire and the victuals in the small kitchen chamber. The food was never vegetables or fresh meats; for whatever reason Dwalin had instructed her only to buy ready made things. There were no knives nor cutting boards or anything of the sort in that kitchen; only utensils. Mìrid didn’t think much of it. The lady then would thank her, and she would leave. 

But the Lady did not do that this tuesday. 

Mìrid nodded as she stepped into Dìs' rooms. She pulled off her pack full of wood and began restocking the shelf. 

When the lady spoke, Mìrid was so genuinely surprised she almost didn't recognize her voice. 

"I saw you fighting in the courtyard this week," she said, her voice gravelly from unuse. "There is no point in it." 

Mìrid concentrated on the wood in front of her so the lady could not see her confused face.  _ What were you doing on the courtyard?  _ She thought.  _ I did not see you.  _

"I did not know you ventured to the courtyard, Lady," she responded carefully. 

A strange expression crossed Dìs' face. Remorse? Spite? It was hard to tell. "I do not very often," she said before returning to her original topic. "Dwalin tells me you young dwarrows enjoy the sport." 

"It is fun to practice," Mìrid admitted. She crossed to the kitchen and began unloading the victuals, suddenly uncomfortable. 

"It is practice for nothing," Dìs replied harshly. "There is nothing but death in war and nothing in war but useless fighting." 

Mìrid pursed her lips and chose her next words carefully. "Defense is not useless," she said. I would not let death happen to me when there is something I can do to prevent it." 

Dìs snorted. "Death comes to all. Pray yours is merciful." 

Mìrid began to wonder if Dìs actually  _ was  _ mad. She gathered up her bags and headed towards the door. "Thank you for... your wisdom, Lady," she said bowing. 

"It is not wisdom. It is common sense. We live in an age of peace. Fighting as you do should not be practiced in such times." 

Mìrid faltered, her hand on the knob. "But there  _ is _ a war coming," she said confusedly, wondering how the Lady of Erebor didn't know such a thing. And then, feeling within her the stirrings of bravery and the need to be honest, she said something she had not even told her own mother: "-And I intend to fight in it." 

And she bowed, and left.

~*~

_ Three bodies lay on gleaming emerald caskets before two dwarves. The rest have all gone to celebrate and commemorate the dead; but a Dwarrow with dark hair and a Dwarf lord with great fire-coloured braids linger on. _

_ The air is warm but the Dwarrow feels cold. The fires and furnaces of Erebor are lit and burning; the city is waking. And yet there is no waking before her; her sons sleep. Her brothers sleep. Her parents sleep. Her husband sleeps. And she knows, they will never wake.  _

_ "I'm sorry," says Dain. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect them."  _

_ She says nothing. She does not know what she is feeling, or if she is feeling at all.  _

_ Dain places a hand on her arm. "Dìs," he says, "You're a strong and wise lady. You've done everything to protect and serve your people. We wouldn't have Erebor back if it weren't for your efforts." He tries to look into her eyes, but she turns away. "Dìs," he says again, "You should be Queen. You deserve it more than I do. You've won it more than I have," he finishes. And then he waits for a response. He knows Dìs will agree. He knows she knows he is right. But when she does speak, it is not what he expects. _

_ "Erebor," she breaths. "What is Erebor but a tomb we go to die in?"  _

_ Dain steps back, his eyebrows drawn together. But Dìs continues on.  _

_ "What is Erebor, Dain, but a cursed place? Were we not warned? And did we not listen? And what did it cost us? What did it cost us then? And what did it cost us now?" She chokes on this last word, gesturing to the caskets. "Erebor." This time she spits the word out and her face twists in rage. "What is this place but a mound of rock we called holy? It has taken lives, Dain! The lives of too many. And I would not touch it for all the gold nor good in the world." She stumbles forward and falls upon a casket. Her baby stares up at her, but he is not there. He sleeps. Her hands would hold his face but she knows it is cold. She shakes and great drops fall from her face. "Erebor," she snarls. "Moria," she spits. "Have dwarves always been a fallen people? Is it our nature to chase after things stolen from us? That we should not touch?" Her voice is breaking. "Is it not enough to have our families? Must we have riches? Must we have mountains and gold?! Is it fate?!" She jerks around to look at Dain, and her eyes are reddened, and the light of fires make them seem as dark as blood. "Is it fate?!? Is it FATE, DAIN? To search and to die!? To want more than we have!?" She laughed, but it was full of spite. "What are we but servants of death? We wake demons. We hunt dragons. We start wars. And how do we end them? Like this, Dain. Every. Time. There is no end to it. No end for us. Our bodies litter this earth, Dain. From the moment this race was born we were doomed to die."  _

_ And so Dain took over Erebor, and ruled as best he could. But visions of the Lady still haunted him from that day; her eyes red, her face distorted. The Dìs he knew died that day, and he held little hope that she would ever return.  _

~*~

Dain huffed and pushed open the heavy door to his study. It was littered with parchments and pens, books and trinkets. Despite being an admirable leader, he hated the paperwork, and his office left much to be desired as a result. 

"Bloody devils," he grunted, throwing a load of scrolls down on the table. "Dunno how we're gonna keep 'em off us for much longer." 

"Might be time to plan an offensive," Dwalin suggested. He stood, arms crossed in the doorway.

"Offensive! Ha! I'll give 'em something offensive," Dain barked. He leaned against the table and massaged his forehead. 

"They won't stop until we give in," Dwalin said, face hard. 

"I know that, thank you," snorted Dain. "But Erebor's fighters are either young or old. Our populations' been cut back sharply in the last hundred or so years and we haven't recovered all the way yet. And I can't believe I'm sayin' this, but I Don't want war, Dwalin." 

Dwalin shook his head. "If we don't fight now they'll inhabit Erebor and kill us all anyway. There are no options." 

Dain rolled his eyes. Great bags lay under them. "I  _ know _ , I know, but I wish there was another way. We can't talk ourselves out of this one." He sniffed. "Not that we dwarves have a great reputation for negotiation as it is…" he picked up the scrolls and started pushing other things to the side to make room for them. 

Dwalin was silent, but Dain could see the wheels turning inside his tattooed head. 

"Oooh no Dwalin," he groaned. "Don't even think about it." 

"If anyone could out-talk messengers from the black gate, she could," he insisted, righting himself. "You  _ know  _ she could, Dain." 

Dain grimaced. "Dìs hasn't spoken a word to me since Thorin died. And I can promise you," he said with a humourless chuckle, "She wants nothing to do with Erebor." He sat heavily in his seat behind the table. 

"But what if she comes to. I can talk to her-" 

"No, ya can't, Dwalin." 

There was silence. 

"You know, Dwalin," Dain said, in the tenderest voice he could muster, "There's no hope for her. It's been sixty  _ years _ , Dwalin. We dwarves may grow old but that's still a long time. If she would've recovered, she would've done it by now." 

"No," said Dwalin. His hands clenched reflexively. "There is something left. I can save it. With time." He turned to go. 

"No you CAN'T, Dwalin!!" Roared Dain. His fist hit the table and papers fluttered from it. "You can't save anyone! This isn't some battle! This isn't some flu that comes and goes!! Dìs is GONE, she's dead with her kin. All that's left to do is wait for her body to die as well." 

"I will NOT!" Dwalins chest heaved and he trembled, and Dain couldn't tell if it were of anger or sadness. "I will not," he repeated. "Dìs still lives. Maybe not as she once was, but she is not dead yet. And until that day, I will be with her." He turned and stormed out. 

"But what of you?" Called back Dain. "You can't do this forever, Dwalin." 

He did not answer. 

__

Despite the strain on the kingdom and within himself, Dwalin still walked up the long staircase to Dís’ rooms that next week. But instead of finding the silent indifference he was accustomed to, he opened the door to see the Lady staring arrows at him. 

“You did not tell me there was a  _ war,”  _ she growled. 

_ Oh Mahal,  _ thought Dwalin. 

“Where did you find out such a ridiculous thing?” He attempted to look amused, but he never was a good liar. 

“Mirid told me,” she snapped. “You  _ lied  _ to me, Dwalin.” 

“I did it for your own good,” he snapped back. 

She huffed and looked angrily into the fireplace. He hesitated, but then stomped over and sat in his usual chair, arms crossed. 

The rest of the visit went on in usual silence, save for the tension between them. Dwalin didn't know what meaningless thing to say this time, and wondered briefly why he ever even tried. But as he stood from his chair and made for the door, Dís spoke. 

“Why will you not let me die?” 

He stopped, and turning, looked at her. His brows were whitening and heavy on his tired eyes. The tattoos on his head were fading. And he thought he saw, for a second, a stubborn raven-haired king sitting before him, sick and confused, but the vision vanished. 

“It would be wrong,” he merely said, shaking his head. 

“If I do not die, they will,” she murmured bitterly. “The young who will fight in this war.” 

Dwalin turned and left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't published literally anything. I wrote it!! Just forgot to publish it lol.


	4. Generations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin sees a lot of things in Mirid, including himself. For a moment it seems as if all is well. A short chapter, but worth the emotional cliffhanger

Dwalin was aging. His muscles took longer to wake in the morning; his bones creaked when he got out of bed. He lived alone in a small house, surrounded by many other small houses. He worked, but only very little, seeing as his portion of Erebor's treasures had secured him for life. He mainly worked for something to do, as a guard to the great gates that protected the mountain. He enjoyed the seasons upon his face when he stood upon the wall. He enjoyed looking out over the vast lands in front. It was the only thing that seemed to quiet his mind those days. 

Dwalin, in his youth, and even a good chunk into his middle-years, was never much for worrying. He was straightforward and blunt as a spoon. He was blind trust and simple pleasures. The tact and the worries belonged to his elder brother, as well as most of the wit and wisdom. 

Dwalin always figured it would stay that way. But in recent years he found his heart was growing heavier, his thoughts ridden with troubles. Not the troubles you can easily speak of, such as lost gold and broken bones, but troubles that were more feeling than saying. The ones that follow you like rain and lurk in the shadows. He had had a dark and dreadful feeling creeping up on him for years, watching him. Dwalin had stubbornly shaken it off. But it drew ever nearer, inescapable. 

You can't take an axe to a feeling, however, so he carried on. He went to work, he went to the tavern to talk with the lads, he went to Dìs, he sparred with Gloin. And that day, he went to the marketplace. Not because he was looking for his own food- He was invited over to Dori's that night, who could cook very impressive dinners- But because it was Tuesday, and he sought a young dwarrow, whom he knew would be searching the market for victuals to take to Lady Dís that very same day. 

Mirid was very average-looking, but he spotted her still, hovering above a baker’s stand. She had hair the color of dry soil and wore it in two twists and two braids, one over the other, which arched up over her head and emptied out over her back. She didn’t have much facial hair, but still enough to weave little sideburns down her jaw and tie the hanging ends with beads. Wood beads, of course. She was barely old enough to be courting. Beads of glass and more precious stones were reserved for older dwarves. 

He made his way through the market towards her. When she finally looked up to see him, her eyes widened. 

“Master Dwalin!...” She trailed off, clearly taken aback by his sudden appearance. “How are you doing today?” 

“We need to talk, young lady,” he responded. 

She gulped. “Has something about the Lady changed?” 

Dwalin huffed and glanced around before leaning in and lowering his voice. “You told her there was war coming?” 

“Yes,” Mirid stammered. “It was strange that she didn’t know about it. No one bothered to tell her?” 

“She-” Dwalin began, but the genuinely confused look on the Dwarrow’s face stopped him. “Just finish your buyin’ and come with me lass,” he said instead. 

Mirid did as told, and after finishing at the bakers’ stand dutifully followed Dwalin through the mountain to the steps of Dis’ tower. 

“Lass,” he started, unsure how to explain. “The lady is...Ill. Any tell of war and she’s likely to lose it.” Internally, he cursed. Balin would’ve said that much better. 

“I see…” Mirid trailed off. “I’m sorry. I just thought, it’s her kingdom, and she should have every right to know. But I am sorry.” She bowed her head. 

“It’s, it’s alright lass,” he said gruffly. “You didn’t know any better. And now,” he found himself saying, “What’s this about fighting in the war? You’re barely seventy.”  _ That  _ was something Balin would say, he thought to himself. 

Mirid drew herself up. “I do intend to fight in it,” she said, suddenly stubborn. “I am old enough and I can hold my own in battle just as well as anyone else.” 

“Can you now?” He questioned. “You’ve never even seen a battle. And what would your mum say?” 

She deflated, but only a little. “I haven’t...told her yet,” she mumbled. 

“You haven’t? And when were you planning to do that?” 

“Eventually. When we actually decide we’re going to war.”

“Well don’t do it. It’s not worth it.” 

“That’s exactly what the Lady said!” Mirid blurted. “But it IS worth it, isn’t it? Someone’s got to fight in the war. And why not me? I care about Erebor. And my mum. If I didn’t then why bother fighting in the first place?” 

Dwalin blinked. He thought he saw, for just a second, a young little prince dwarf with barely any beard glaring up at him. But the vision disappeared and it was just Mirid. 

“...Lass,” he said eventually, wishing more than ever he had Balin’s wisdom, “It...is your right to fight for Erebor. As a warrior I can’t tell you any different. But it’s...ugly business. A lot of us have died, and I think you’re...You’re a little young for that.” 

He stared down at her as she shuffled her feet and glanced around, obviously uncomfortable. A memory surfaced and suddenly Dwalin wasn’t there anymore, but in a courtyard, axe in hand, staring up at his older brother. 

“ _ I want to go with Father! It’s my right!”  _

_ “It is, aye, but you’re too young.”  _

_ “Am not!”  _

_ “You are too. Mother would have a fit.”  _

_ “Balin!” He huffed.  _

_ His brother pursed his lips and looked at him. He was always thinking; You could see it behind his eyes. “Dwalin, listen. If you must go to war...Don’t go now. Go next time.”  _

_ “But-” _

_ “While Father is at war we can train, and when he comes back, he’ll see how good we’ve gotten, and is sure to take us with him next time! And by then we’ll be older, and he won’t have any reason to keep us behind.”  _

_ “...Ok. But who will train us?”  _

_ Balin grinned. “We’ll do it. Ourselves!”  _

_ Dwalin thought it over and then nodded. “Alright Balin. We train.”  _

It was a clever plot. He understood now, much later, what Balin had done was prevent him from dying stupidly, too young in a war he didn't understand, while at the same time preparing him for when he inevitably would fight in one. He cleared his throat and focused on the young dwarf before him. 

“We have yet to see if Erebor will go to war. Pray that it doesn’t.” 

“But-” 

“But if it does, and if you must go, then you must be ready. I won’t have you running around as young as you are into any fights unprepared.” 

“But I know how to fight-” 

“Aye. I’ve seen it.” 

Mirid quieted as she remembered that fact. 

“You can fight, and not all that badly, but it could be better. Take those things up to the lady and meet me in the west courtyard in an hour with your weapons.” 

“Yes sir!” She responded, a new light in her eyes. She bowed and bounded up the stairs. Dwalin smiled a little, and as promised, an hour later, met her in the courtyard. She was better than he expected, but also as he expected in need of much improvement. She left feeling battered, bruised, but quite thrilled to be training with a warrior as renowned as Dwalin fundin’s son. And the son in question left, feeling much lighter than he had in years, to have a wonderful dinner at Dori’s. 

When he arrived at the door of the beautiful tailor’s house, he knocked briefly before throwing it open and dropping his axe on the floor. 

“Well lads, how are we all doin’ this fine day?” 

There was silence. 

He turned around, confused. Gloin sat at the oval table with Dori and Nori. Their faces were grave. There was a piece of paper in Gloin’s hands. 

“What’s… What’s the matter?” Dwalin asked. But he knew. The shadow was upon him now. 

“They’re dead, Dwalin,” Gloin rasped. His eyes were red. All their eyes were red. 

“What...What?” 

“Gimli’s been to Moira,” Said Nori. His usual mirth-filled face was cold and empty. “He made it out alive. But he says they’ve been dead for years.” Next to him, Dori broke down into sobs. 

“I’m sorry,” said Gloin. 

And Dwalin wept. 


	5. Reawakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balin is dead, and none are left save two old dwarves with no hope. But hope still remains, deep within the mountains and etched on paper, and there may yet be peace.

Mirid delivered victuals slightly later than usual, and seemed hurried, but otherwise came and went as expected that day. Dis noted these things, and then noted that it was funny she was noting anything at all. The past had dominated her mind for so long, that to think in the present was strange to her. 

_ It’s this war,  _ she thought to herself. War. The word had been common among her people since their creation. Her fathers and her father's fathers went to war, leaving widows and children. Battles dominated every other page in their history books. They seemed almost to glory in it, the mighty strength of Dwarves. But that, surely, was not all they were good for? Mahal would not create a race to only destroy them, would he? If not, then why were they so focused upon it? 

She groaned and her head fell into her hands. So many lives lost. The elves hated her kind for not coming to their aid in battle, but could they be blamed? Elves did not die as dwarves did. 

A wave of bitterness overwhelmed her and she could think of nothing else for a time. But time is a strange thing- it passes. It moves without ceasing. Sometimes this is a comfort, and sometimes a curse. For Dis, it was as if time did not exist. It moved through her and she aged, but in her mind nothing changed. She bore the same worries. The same anger. The same grief. She felt like burning and drowning all at once, but still she sat in her chair, day after day. 

And still every Thursday, Dwalin came. She did not know why after all this time he did so, but she was too selfish to ask him to stop.

In the beginning, soon after Erebor had been reclaimed, many had come. They had come with messages of hope and well being, with condolences and tears for her family. But nothing could be done about Lady Dís, who was as stubborn in grieving as she was in everything else. Eventually, they all having given up on her, ceased their visits. But not Dwalin, who had never tried to force healing upon her. No, not Dwalin, who had been so quietly steadfast through the years. He was more loyal than any dwarf that ever lived. She had never thanked him, and indeed her mind was so scattered that she thought she felt no gratitude. But buried underneath the sorrow and the guilt and the anger, her heart was glad. 

That Thursday, he came again and sat in his same chair and stared into the fireplace as he had done so many times before. Dis nodded. He nodded back. And normalcy was satisfied.

It is strange how from one set of eyes, all is well, but to another, everything is aflame. It takes a very close bond to see when one is hiding their pain, and Dís was in no condition to see how Dwalin was hurting. He was as he ever was to her. But within himself, he was burning. His heart ached for his brother. His brother, who had always been so wise; who had always been so fierce and yet so quiet; who had taught and protected him from the moment of his birth. Dwalin had suffered many losses in his life, but he had never thought he'd lose his brother, at least not in that way. Balin had been old. He had made it so far. But his corpse lay rotting in a cursed mountain with no burial, and no feast. Dwalin cursed himself. He should've been there, he thought. To repay all the debt he owed his brother in saving his life so many times; he should've been there. But would he have been able to save him? It mattered not, for Balin was dead in Moria, and Dwalin was once again left behind to mourn. 

Dis saw none of this. Her eyes rested on the fire, looking but not seeing, as they had been doing for the last sixty years. A voice seemed to ring in Dwalin’s ears. 

_ The last sixty years.  _

Dwalin's ears began to pound. 

_ The last sixty years. _

His muscles began to tense as if preparing for a fight, but there was no enemy. 

_ The last sixty years. _

His stomach twisted into knots and his head felt like it was about to burst. 

_ The last sixty years.  _

He took a gulp of air and struggled not to be sick. Was the world spinning? Or was it him? 

He breathed and waited for the moment to pass. It did, but very slowly, and as it left it dragged out some last piece of will Dwalin had been hanging onto since Thorin died. 

"Dís," he said, his voice hoarse. 

She turned to look at him. Those eyes were so grey it was hard to believe they had ever been blue. 

"When," he struggled, "When will this end?" 

"Will what end?" She said slowly. 

"This," Dwalin gestured. "Every week I've seen you. For the last sixty years," he choked. "And I've been trying, Dís, but… I don't know what to do!" He straightened up, feeling suddenly a floodgate in him split open. "I'm no soul-healer! I'm no diplomat! I don't know what to say to you, or-or even what to DO with you!" 

Dís' brows drew together and her eyes widened. Normalcy for today was no longer an option.

But Dwalin continued: "Ach, Dís, don't you, don't you remember anything? From when we were young?"

"If I didn't remember, then it wouldn't hurt so much," she snapped. 

"Well if you remembered it rightly, you'd be comforted!" He snapped back. "You think I don't remember Thorin? Or the boys? You think I don't remember riding with em' and teachin' ‘em how to hold an axe? You think I don't remember every night that Thorin and Frerin and I went hunting? You think I don't-" 

" _ DONT SPEAK OF THEM!!"  _ She shouted. "I live ENOUGH with their loss, I don't need-" 

"Don't speak?? I may not have been blood-kin, but I loved them, and you would do right to remember  _ that,"  _ he spat, standing up so fast his chair tipped over. "And I do remember them. I remember them every day of my blasted  _ life,  _ and it hurts me yes, but it's all I have! And I will remember the good things that we had and  _ THAT  _ comforts me." 

"Dwalin," Dís sputtered, "...You are...changed." Her eyes were a mix of betrayed and confused. Always betrayed with her. 

"Well so are you," he said, and his anger left him almost as soon as it came. His shoulders felt pressed down as if the weight of the mountain was on them. "You've been changed ever since. I used to hold hope you'd come back. But I- I don't think you will."

The dwarves stared at each other. One lost, one hopeless. 

Dwalin bent over and picked up the chair. He turned and opened the door, but before leaving, stopped. 

"Balin is dead. He was killed in Moria." 

And then the door was shut, and he was gone.

~*~

Dis sat, alone. The fire crackled away in it’s grate, and filled her rooms with heat, but she felt none. An icy cold had taken hold of her. Balin was dead. 

Balin had visited her oft, after the retaking of erebor. She could remember his gentle, sad smile. Many tears she had wept into his arm. Balin, despite all the grief and war he had seen, remained so kind and so soft, and seemed only to grow wiser with each year. He had been such a comfort to her. When he left for Moria, he had left her stricken, once again betrayed. But his betrayal did not mean she didn’t still miss him. She did, and very much. She missed him even more so for being among the living. He was a body that would hold her still, and let her weep, and offer words of comfort that meant something. He had always been such a good comforter, even in the years when his beard was still brown and his back was still straight. 

But Balin was dead, and she knew there was nothing that could bring him back. 

_ Dead,  _ said a voice in her head. And then it multiplied.  _ Dead. Dead, dead dead dead dead dead dead,  _ until her ears were ringing and darkness pulled at her and she felt herself moving, her old body rising. She stepped towards the fire and flung away the grate as if to cast herself into it. Her head was spinning and her heart was nothing but a void with no meaning.  _ DEAD,  _ her head shouted, with the chorus of a thousand voices,  _ ALL IS DEAD AND GONE, AND YOU ARE LEFT, YOU ARE THE LAST ONE, AND ALL IS DEAD AND GONE, YOU ARE LEFT, YOU ARE BETRAYED- _

Her hand met the fireplace stones with a slap, and she stood, panting, sweat dripping off of her cold face over the fire. The voices in her head ceased. 

For a moment she rested there, leaning against the stones. Such voices were not unfamiliar to her, but never before had they called to her with that strength. She took a moment to breath, with the cool stone of the mountain resting beneath her hand. 

There are forces in middle earth that are unseen and yet felt. They bear different names among different races. Some are dealt with as children’s superstitions and some are hallowed as gods. In dwarven halls great respect is given to the stones of the earth, the mountains from which you came. It is said the iron and gold that runs in veins within the rock is the same within the blood of every dwarf, and that great stone ties together all dwarrow from across centuries. And in times of need, dwarves of times past may call to those in the present. 

But whether this is true or not, something did call upon Dis that day, and it was not the hounding of demons. Spirits are much softer than they are, and it takes a lot more effort to get a message across. So while the queen under the mountain stood, breathless, in a brief moment of silence, a hundred voices rose up out of the stone and flowed into her veins, to plant one whisper word in her mind. 

_ Living,  _ it said. 

Living? Dis thought. She shook herself and stood away from the mantelpiece. Living? She became dully aware of her heart pumping. Her brows furrowed together.  _ Living.  _ A thought of her own popped up, about how she could think of living when all she loved was dead, but she pushed it aside. This left her empty once more, with only the whispered word. Living. Had she been living? And did she live now? 

An unexpected surge of energy filled her and she spun and stumbled towards the desk at the back of her chambers. It was caked in dust. She threw open drawers and opened cabinets and out spilled letters, hundreds of letters. They fell to the floor like leaves. She pushed through them. Names blinked up at her in different scripts. Her hands clutched at the names- Fili, Kili. Her sons. She pulled out the papers and held them in shaking hands. 

_ Hullo ma! Riding has got poor Kili all sore. He’s not accustomed to this type of work.  _

Some ink stained the pages, indicating a fight for the pen. Sloppier handwriting took over the next lines. 

_ Am to! It’s Fili who can’t stand this line of work. Not enough beautiful women to fawn over him all day.  _

Her mouth twitched into a smile. 

_ Anyway, uncle Thorin is leading us to this place called the “Shire.” Evidently we’re supposed to get a burgler there! He’s actually quite excited, for uncle. Which has been nice to see of course, but gets a little hard for the rest of us, seeing as he wants to wake us all up earlier and earlier every day- _

Dis finished devouring that letter and picked up another. Vili. This one was short and hastily scribbled. 

_ My lady- meet me at midnight in the west horse stables. You are simply too beautiful to go without seeing for more than a day! Although I’d certainly prefer, at some point in our futures, to see you perhaps in a more romantic setting than the bushes behind camp. And wearing a little less, perhaps. I jest! I do not wish to fight with you, except, perhaps with our- _

She dropped the letter, and a rush of blood warmed her face. She picked up another. Thorin always had such nice handwriting. 

_ Dis! Frerin and I wish you could be here. We hunted the largest boar you’d ever have seen! It could’ve fed half the palace! Frerin did the killing blow, but I’m the one who did all the work, if you ask me. I just weakened it so he could finish it. But now he’s boasting about it and I’m half a mind to roast him along with the pig.  _

She smiled and picked another. 

_ Lady, I hope this finds you well.  _ The smile slipped back off her face.  _ Moria is a difficult battle indeed, but the strength of our men is great. You wouldn’t believe little Ori! I know you didn’t have the chance to know him much, but he’s a good little spirit. Always writing things down. We dwarves don’t do that enough, in my opinion, which also serves the purpose of my letter today. Merely to write and to be written to, isn’t that pleasant?  _

Briefly the words death resurfaced in her mind, but she clutched the letter tighter. 

_ Oin is a very good healer. Best in Erebor, and now best in Moria! His attempts to train younger dwarrow amuses me. Especially with that ear trumpet. I hold a few years over his head, but pray lady, that I age better than he!  _

_ We have cleared out a portion of the mountain ourselves already. We are beginning to have our own rooms and our own kitchens. Real kitchens are such a comfort. It reminds me of all the good times I had in mine, and of all the good things we ate. When I return, or better yet, when you visit, I shall have Bombur cook us a feast!  _

_ I know things are hard, right now, Dis. Do not pretend they are not, and do not pretend I don’t know it. It is hard for us all. But for me lady, eat something good. I will be happy knowing you have done this.  _

_ With great love,  _

_ Balin, son of Fundin _

She stood there, holding the letter gingerly. Eventually she put it aside and picked up another. This one was written in a strange handwriting with many curves and angles and dots. 

_ Lady Dis- _

_ I’m terribly sorry. Well, I’m more than sorry. I’m also embarrassed, because I know you so much and yet so little. We met briefly at the feast, but I didn’t want to be a bother to you. But with all my heart, Lady, I am so, so sorry.  _

There was a space between this line and the next, and the paper was warped from water damage before the writing picked up again. 

_ I did everything I could. I wish I was more than a hobbit, but I am what I am. And what I am is alive, and after everything I should be grateful, but I wish it had been me. If I could go back, I would do everything in my power to save your brother. And your sons. It should’ve been me. I’m sorry.  _

_ But I wanted to let you know that I did- and I do- love your family very much. Your sons were incredible! Not a day passes that I don’t miss their laughter. And your brother. He didn’t laugh much, if it all actually, but he was still so… so lovely. Well he wasn’t that all the time either, actually. But don’t get me wrong! I loved him. And I do love him. And every breath I take I wish was his instead of mine.  _

_ But the point of my letter is, they loved you very much. I learned so much about you that I love you a little myself. But now… Well now they’re gone, and we’re left, I suppose. And if you ever want to see me, or speak with me- if you ever want to, or have the time I mean, I shall always be there.  _

_ My best wishes, and many happy returns,  _

_ Bilbo Baggins  _

Dis took the letter back to her chair in a trance and sat down heavily. Baggins. It had been so many years she had forgotten he even existed. But he had; He frequented many of her sons’ and brothers’ letters during their journey. A Hobbit. A strange creature. 

She turned the letter over and over in her hands, staring at it until she memorized every inkstain and crease. Bilbo Baggins. 

She pursed her lips and rose again from her armchair to return to the desk. The hoard of letters seemed to call to her, soft paper glowing in the firelight. She drew up her deskchair. It creaked in protest when sat in. Her hands pulled out an inkwell. It was nearly dry, but not quite. And with pen and paper, she began to write.


End file.
